Call for the Saint (17 page)

“I can see your point.”

“When I was talking to you last night,” she began, “I-I-” She fumbled as if groping for the right words.

Simon passed Patricia the sugar with harlequin courtesy. She didn’t seem to see it.

She said sweetly: “Last night?”

“On the phone, after you called,” Simon elucidated smoothly. “She wanted to know what went on, too. Her father was rather upset by our little visit to the Masked Angel’s dressing room after the fight.”

Patricia’s red mouth pursed in a skeptical “Oh!”

Connie found the words at last: “I was hoping and praying they’d keep that-that man in jail-that the fight would be called off …” Her voice broke. “But they’re releasing him.”

“Are they?” Simon asked with interest. “I didn’t see anything about it in my paper.”

“Daddy was over at police headquarters first thing this morning with Spangler-he’s the Masked Angel’s manager.”

The Saint nodded.

“I see. So they got the Angel out of the jug in spite of Hoppy’s recommendation.”

“Steve is going through with this fight-if you don’t do something about it.” Connie Grady’s voice strained against her self-control. “He’ll be killed!”

Hoppy gulped on a mouthful that would have choked a horse.

“Killed? De Champ? Why, he’ll moider de bum!”

Connie turned on him sharply.

“You think so? After what the Masked Angel did to Torpedo Smith last night? That-that so-called bum has beaten every man he’s fought.”

“Under Doc Spangler’s ministry, at least,” the Saint amended.

“Aah, dey was fakes!” Hoppy derided. “Dey musta bin!”

“When Torpedo Smith was killed last night,” she said tensely, “do you think he was faking?”

“You know, of course,” Simon said to Connie, “who the Masked Angel really is, don’t you?”

She nodded wearily.

“Yes, of course. Daddy owns part of him.”

She looked up quickly, as if suddenly realizing what she had said. “I mean,” she stumbled confusedly, “he doesn’t have any interest in him directly-that is, not really. It’s just that Spangler owes Daddy money, and-and—”

“Of course,” Simon soothed gently, “I understand. It’s just that Doc Spangler is paying off your father from his earnings on the Masked Angel.”

She seemed grateful for the lead.

“Yes. Yes, that’s it.”

“After all,” the Saint observed casually, “it’s not considered ethical for a matchmaker to hold a financial interest in any of his contestants-or at least a major share-so naturally Mr. Grady would avoid that sort of thing. Especially where a championship bout was concerned.”

Connie Grady looked up suddenly.

“I don’t want Steve to be one of those contestants!” she burst out, her emerald eyes misting. She turned away. “I sound -ridiculous, don’t I? I-I wouldn’t dream of asking this of anyone else in the world. You-you’re the only person I could possibly imagine being capable of-somehow arranging it so that the fight would never happen.”

“Exactly what are you suggesting?” Pat asked curiously. “Do you think the Saint could persuade Nelson not to fight?”

Connie flashed her a startled glance.

“Oh, no!” she said. “If he knew I’d come here to ask Mr. Templar-he’d never forgive me.” She turned to Simon pleadingly. “There must be some-other way. I can’t say how. I only know that you’ve done things-in the past that-that were like miracles…. Daddy has told me about-some of your adventures.”

“Well, well,” said Patricia admiringly. “Simon Templar, the Paul Bunyan of modern crime. Have you another miracle up your sleeve?”

Then she caught the stricken look on Connie’s face and her laughter softened. She put an arm about the girl’s shoulders and looked up at the Saint questioningly.

“Simon, what do you think?”

“I think,” said the Saint, “that we ought to go on with breakfast before it all gets cold, or Hoppy eats it.”

He deliberately devoted himself to his own plate, and insisted on that matter-of-fact diversion until even Connie Grady had to follow with the others. He knew that the letdown was what she needed if she could be eased into it, and for his own part a healthy appetite was mixed with the need for an inter lude of constructive thinking in approximately equal proportions. If it was obvious that Connie’s concern for Steve Nelson was absolutely real, it was no less plain to the Saint that she still hadn’t come out with everything that was on her mind.

He waited until the commonplace mechanics of eating had achieved an inevitable slackening of the tension, and then he said almost casually: “Of course one thing we might do is shoot Barrelhouse Bilinski—”

“No, no,” Connie gasped; but her tone was now more impatient than fearful. “I didn’t mean anything like that. I don’t want-anybody hurt.” She shook her head. “There must be something-something else you could do. You’re clever …”

Simon considered the tip of his cigarette a moment, the smoke trickling from his mouth.

“Does your father know you’re here?” he asked.

“Of course not!” The idea seemed to startle her. “I couldn’t tell him I’m trying to have the fight stopped-any more than I could tell Steve!”

“Steve is pretty good at his profession,” Simon remarked. “Does he know how you feel about his chances against the Angel?”

“How could I tell him? I’ve tried to make him quit now- with the championship. It hasn’t done any good. He’s so sure, so confident! If he only had sense enough to be afraid, to realize!”

“Realize what?” Simon queried mildly.

“That it’s not-not worth risking his life—”

“He’s retiring after this next fight, according to the papers,” Patricia said.

“Yes, I know. He promised me… . But it may be too late by then.”

Hoppy was shaking his head uncomprehendingly.

“You talk like he’s a cream puff,” he said. “He’s de Champ, ain’t he?”

“Connie,” said the Saint gently, holding her eyes, “is there any other reason why you think Steve won’t win? Something you haven’t told me yet?”

She drew back.

“No.” She turned away. “I’ve told you everything. I —
Spangler used to be a doctor once,” she said quickly. “I mean a real doctor, I—Suppose he uses hypnotism? I know how crazy that sounds, but something will happen to Steve! I know it will!”

None of this was particularly fresh grist for Simon’s cogitative mill. He sighed.

“If Steve gives his usual performance,” he reasoned, “I don’t see that Bilinski stands a prayer. As for Doc Spangler’s hypnotic powers-I wouldn’t worry too much about them, if I were you, Connie.”

Her mouth trembled.

“I’m sorry. I might have known that you’d talk just like Steve does. …. You and that-trainer of his.”

Simon’s brows lifted.

“Trainer?”

“Whitey Mullins.”

Hoppy, reaching for the coffeepot, turned eagerly.

“Ya mean Whitey’s trainin’ de Champ? Say!” He beamed with the fanged grimace of a delighted dinosaur. “Whitey’s a great guy.”

The green eyes flashed at him.

“Is he? What does Mullins care what happens to Steve? All he cares about is getting even with Spangler. He’s just using Steve for a cat’s-paw!”

Hoppy blinked, his mouth open.

“I didn’t know de Champ’s a southpaw, but everybody knows Whitey has it in for de Doc ever since Spangler finagles Bilinski’s contract away from him. Dat’s an old story.” He shook his head dazedly. “And all de time I t’ink Nelson is a right-hander! He fights like one.”

Pat suppressed a smile.

“There doesn’t seem to be much wrong with having a handler who’s so interested in seeing the Angel beaten.”

“But the Angel won’t be beaten,” Connie said hopelessly. “Steve’ll be killed! He hasn’t a chance!”

Simon studied her broodingly.

“You’re very sure of that,” he said, and reached into his pocket to bring something out. He went on without a change of tone: “Did you ever see this before?”

On the table between them he laid the revolver which last night’s visitor had left behind.

By no perceptible sign, the Saint sensed a sudden change in her, an inner freezing, her eyes coming into focus on the gun, her whole being gripped by that thanatoid stillness that stands on the threshold of panic.

“Where,” she said, in a small tight voice, “did you get—that?”

“It was left here last night as a sort of-calling card.”

Patricia was staring at him.

“Last night?”

“Some hopped-up heister crashes de jernt,” Hoppy snorted. “He gets away before we can even see who it is. But we give him such a scare he forgets de rod.”

“You didn’t tell me!” Pat accused. “You finished that brawl at the Arena over here, didn’t you?” She searched Simon’s face narrowly, and sensed the truth with the swift certainty of an intuition ground to psychic fineness by the countless abrasions of past experience. “Someone followed you here and tried to kill you!”

The Saint bowed.

“Darling, you know our kind of friends too well.”

Connie Grady stood up. She gathered up her purse and gloves with unsteady hands. Her face was pale, the magnolia skin drawn and haggard. She tried to ignore the revolver on the table, but her eyes kept flitting back to it, under the spell of some kind of frightening fascination.

“I’m sorry I bothered you like this,” she said with nervous breathlessness. “It was silly, really. I-” She broke off, walking quickly to the door. “Good-by.”

“No, wait!”

“Please.”

She almost ran out of the apartment, and the front door slammed behind her.

Patricia and Hoppy returned their blank stares to the Saint- Patricia’s tinged with irony.

“Too bad,” she said. “And you were just starting to make such an impression.”

“Chees,” Hoppy said between mouthfuls, resuming his assault on the food, “de Torpedo gettin’ killed last night kinda made her blow her top, huh, boss ?”

“It was that gun,” Pat stated, “that upset her. Why?”

Simon picked up the revolver and turned it idly in his hands.

“My crystal ball doesn’t work like yours,” he said, and he smiled at her. “Rather an attractive little thing, isn’t she?”

“Oh, rather,” Pat agreed, her smile sweetly corrosive; “if you like them on the slightly hysterical side.”

Simon laughed,” his fingernail tracing the small intertwined letters engraved on the metal just above the stocks of the gun.

“Poor Melusina,” he sighed whimsically. “I’m afraid her dear old daddy is making her cry.”

“Melusina? What are you talking about? I thought her name was Connie.”

“So it is. The term was merely analogous. Melusina was a fairy. A French fairy.” Simon grinned provocatively. “If you ever delved into such matters in your youth, dear, you’ll remember the story.”

“I never was as good at fairy tales as you,” Pat said demurely.

“Melusina,” Simon continued imperturbably, “was no end attractive and quite easy to take-even if she was on the slightly hysterical side. However, she happened to suffer an injury from her father, for which, if memory serves, she had him imprisoned inside a mountain. She, in turn, was punished by being turned into a snake from the waist down every Saturday night.”

“She ought to have been able to wriggle out of that one,” Patricia said dryly. “But what has it got to do with Miss Grady, if anything?”

“Boss, don’t she t’ink Smith got killed by accident?” Hoppy demanded.

“Inasmuch as you raise the question,” Simon said, “I’ll give you an answer. No.”

“Obviously,” said Patricia. “But what do you think?”

“She’s quite right. It wasn’t an accident.”

Mr. Uniatz absorbed half a cup of coffee at a gulp, scowling interestedly.

“Ya mean de Torpedo ain’t knocked off fair and square?”

The Saint nodded thoughtfully.

“Indubitably not-if instinct serves, and I think it does. At any rate, we’re going to look into the matter.”

“What are you going to do, Simon?”

The Saint smiled at her, and then at the gun lying on the palm of his hand.

“We’re going to call on the man who owns this,” he said. “Wish we could take you along, but unfortunately …”

“But you said you didn’t even see who it was who left that gun here!” she exclaimed. “How do you know who—”

“I know who owns these initials,” said the Saint patiently, lifting the gun for her inspection. He showed her the monogram in fancy script on the metal. “They’re rather difficult to untangle, but I think you can make them out.”

Hoppy leaned over.

“Initials?” he queried, peering at the gun. “Where?” “M … G,” Pat read. “M-G? But who is M G?”

“Offhand, I’d say it was Connie’s father, Michael Grady, wouldn’t you?” Simon kissed her, and stood up. “Let’s get started, Hoppy. We may be able to dig her old man out of the mountain.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
The Saint entered by one of the side entrances of the Manhattan Arena and found himself, as he expected, in the office wing of the building. The corridors and reception rooms were alive with voices and sporting gentry of varied interests and importance; for this was a crossroads of the indoor sporting world, and through these catacombs paraded its foremost and hindmost representatives.

Simon moved silently and inconspicuously along the shadowed wall of the main hall and stepped into the main reception room.

It was a bare and unkempt antechamber, its hard chairs and bare benches occupied by a garrulous covey of promoters, managers, sportswriters, ticket speculators, and professional athletes of varied talents and notoriety, all obviously waiting to see the great Mike Grady. A fog of tobacco smoke hung over the room like stale incense burnt to strange and violent gods; the voices of the votaries droned a ragged litany punctuated by coarse yaks of laughter. There was something about them that marked them as a distinct species of metropolitan life; each was subtly akin to the other, no matter how different their outer hides might be. It lay, perhaps, in the mutual boldness of their eyes, the uninhibited expression of primitive emotion, the corner-of-the-mouth asides and the sudden loudly profane rodomontades in lower-bracket dialects. Their eyes appraised him pitilessly as he threaded his way through them, like circus animals taking the measure of a new trainer; but in the same moment their inquisitorial glances flipped away again, as if even under his easy elegance they recognized instinctively a fellow member of their own predatory species.